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Jimmy Saville From an oak beam ceiling, Tiffany lights hang, glossing over the restaurant’s tired furniture with artificial rainbows. Dozens of tables, cloaked in paper-napkin coats, decorate the chessboard flooring, their legs reaching out from an ever-growing bed of spilt excess. All bar a few are occupied; Manchester’s hungry population filling themselves on a swill of burgers, ribs and steaks, before washing their consumption down with bottles of over-priced Mexican tastes. But the costs and the sweltering ambience don’t stop people queuing for the next available placement; the maitre-d struggles under a barrage of questions and demands, locals and tourists wanting to know why they are being made to wait forty minutes for someone to leave, when they can see vacant placements, each one perfectly set for their eager posteriors. The attendant’s skinny frame buckles under the weight of frowns and pointing fingers as his arms reach out with menus and apologies. He tries to appease, even offering a free drink (up to a certain cost) to anyone threatening to walk away and offering their funds to another emporium. He seems to be doing well, dragging his withered body from beneath the heap of abuse… |
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